


breathe in your dust

by mckayla (steveromanov)



Series: she's thunderstorms [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: After-Sex, But there's no plot, Drabble, F/M, Mission Sex, Not Yet An Established Relationship, Okay so it's longer than a drabble, Smoking, Undecided Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-03
Updated: 2015-12-03
Packaged: 2018-05-04 19:47:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5346398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/steveromanov/pseuds/mckayla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He chuckles again as he kisses the knob at the top of her spine, murmuring, “What are you, a Bond girl?”</p><p>She scoffs. “Please. If anything, I’m Bond.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	breathe in your dust

**Author's Note:**

> This might be expanded upon? At least in it's own verse, because I really like this fic despite it's length. I think it's because I just love the ambiance in it, to be honest. I'm weak for this trope, even if I don't rightly know the name of it lol.

When Natasha wakes, the room is hued in a midnight blue, dully illuminated by the moon shining in through the open balcony doors. Her skin is still a bit dampened with sweat, albeit cooler now, and she surmises that they probably haven’t been asleep for more than an hour. Steve’s arm is comfortably heavy where it’s draped over her waist, and she spares a moment observing how his long lashes curve against the tops of his cheekbones before slipping from beneath his arm and stepping out of bed.

Her back’s to him, but she knows that the sudden loss of her body heat beside him has woken him up—he’s strangely attuned to her. The thought doesn’t bother her as much as it should. She stretches languidly; extends her arms above her head, cranes her neck to the side, and tilts up on the tips of her toes so that her backside lifts in the air and catches Steve’s eye. She doesn’t have to look at him to know his smile is bleary with sleep, half-covered because he has his face pressed into a pillow. She smiles, too. Still, neither of them say anything as she silently pads to the other side of their hotel room.

She picks up her panties where they’d been discarded on the floor earlier that evening, shimmying them up her legs before finding Steve’s dress shirt strewn haphazardly over the back of a chair. She slips her arms into the too-big sleeves, buttons it just enough to cover her breasts from public view, and steps out on to the balcony to greet the cool, Rome air.

Her cigarettes and lighter are resting on the balcony’s railing, right where she left them the last time she and Steve had sex post-mission, which happened to be last night. The pack is only missing four menthols but the package is relatively worn and wrinkled; she’s had it for a little over a year now, but considering she only ever craves a cigarette after she’s pleasantly sore and fucked out, it’s stayed relatively untouched until now (that should say something about her personal life, but she ignores it). In fact, the four cigarettes that are gone have only been used this past week. Steve leaves her more pleasantly sore and fucked out than she’s used to, but she’s not complaining. She lifts a menthol out of the pack and holds it between her lips as she lights it. Now there’re five missing.

She senses Steve’s presence behind her before he actually touches her, so when he wraps his arms around her waist and presses a kiss to her shoulder, she inhales deeply and leans against his torso, relaxing into the warmth and firmness of his skin.

When she exhales a cloud of pale smoke, Steve chuckles lowly into her hair. She can feel the small smile he’s wearing against the nape of her neck. “I still can’t believe you do that.”

“You came out here naked,” she counters, smirking. She can feel him half-hard pressed against her lower back. This week has made her discover a new appreciation for the super soldier serum.

He ignores that and continues, “I mean, who smokes cigarettes after sex? It was amusing enough the first night when you just lit one up in bed. Now you’re standing on a balcony past midnight, wearing nothing but my shirt and panties like in some kind of movie.” He chuckles again as he kisses the knob at the top of her spine, murmuring, “What are you, a Bond girl?”

She scoffs. “Please. If anything, I’m Bond.”

He hums; the vibration feels nice against her skin. “Come back to bed.”

She doesn’t say anything as she lets him guide her back inside. They leave the doors open and the smoke from the cigarette still hanging from her lips curls behind them, swept away by the soft breeze outside. When Steve sits on the edge of the bed, he settles her on his lap, her thighs on either side of his own. He undoes the button holding his shirt closed over her chest as she tips her head back and blows out a steady stream of smoke towards the ceiling; Steve chuckles quietly against her skin as he presses a series of slow, moist kisses to the tops of her breasts.

And then his stomach growls. Natasha smirks.

“I smoke post-coital, you eat post-coital,” she notes, and he laughs and shrugs as she reaches over to the nightstand and flips open the to-go container from their dinner earlier that night, which was technically orchestrated to be a part of their current mission but ended up being more or less an actual date. As Steve settles back against the headboard, his hands firm on her hips so that she doesn’t tip over, Natasha swipes up the to-go box and rests it on his stomach, placing a plastic fork in his hand.

They sit there for a moment in silence, Natasha finishing her cigarette and Steve leisurely eating the tiramisu the two of them had to take back up to their room because she had been running her foot up and down his calf almost the entire dinner and they'd asked for the bill before they could even start eating it. After she bends over and puts out the cigarette in a marble ashtray provided by the hotel, Steve, having apparently scarfed down the dessert already, leans up and catches her lips with his own. He tastes like espresso and cocoa, his tongue cool from the cream. It’s good. It makes her hum into his mouth.

He rolls her on to her back and they fuck like that; Natasha still in Steve’s dress shirt as he leaves coffee-flavored kisses down her body and between her legs. He brings her to orgasm once with his mouth before seating himself inside of her, thrusting slow but thorough enough that the headboard knocks against the wall and makes their neighbors irately pound against the other side in response. Steve buries his face in her neck and they both laugh, quietly, before Natasha rolls them over until they’re falling over the side of the bed and Steve lands on his back with a thud. She moans at the sudden deepness of him in her, at the vibrations in his stomach against her clit as he chuckles again and runs his hands all over her body. He doesn’t let her grind against him for long before he’s turning them again, and they fuck tenderly, leisurely, in front of the open balcony doors, the breeze working to cool the sweat constantly sheening their skin.

After, Natasha lies on the floor and lights a sixth cigarette. Steve’s beside her, idly tracing shapes on her bare stomach with one hand as he orders late night room service with the other.


End file.
